By The Arno

　　The oleander on the wall

　　Grows crimson¹ in the dawning light，

　　Though the grey shadows of the night

　　Lie yet on Florence like a pall².

　　The dew is bright upon the hill，

　　And bright the blossoms overhead，

　　But ah！ the grasshoppers³ have fled，

　　The little Attic⁴ song is still.

　　Only the leaves are gently stirred

　　By the soft breathing of the gale⁵，

　　And in the almond-scented vale

　　The lonely nightingale is heard.

　　The day will make thee silent soon，

　　O nightingale sing on for love！

　　While yet upon the shadowy grove⁶

　　Splinter the arrows of the moon.

　　Before across the silent lawn

　　In sea-green vest the morning steals，

　　And to love's frightened eyes reveals

　　The long white fingers of the dawn

　　Fast climbing up the eastern sky

　　To grasp and slay⁷ the shuddering⁸ night，

　　All careless of my heart's delight，

　　Or if the nightingale should die.